Only the Wicked (34 page)

Monk had to push any empathy he might work up for his would-be executioner out of his mind. He could not afford to focus on anything but wanting to see his mother, and Jill and his sister and everybody else who meant anything to him again. Monk wanted desperately to be able to walk through the door of his donut shop and see Elrod's impassive face. And he wanted more than anything to be swamped by the aroma of fresh glazed donuts and brewing coffee. He had to survive.

Monk plowed deeper into the woods, tripping over some roots. The .45 went out of his grasp and landed somewhere among the thick leaves and vines. The shotgun was beneath his body, the barrel pressed under his chin. He was thankful its owner kept it in condition, since it hadn't gone off and blown his brains out through his ears.

He felt around for the pistol, hoping to latch onto its familiar casing with the gouge in the finish, a legacy of a deflected bullet his father, the sergeant, had earned in Korea. Of course, his dad's re-telling of how the nick happened took on different details each time. No time for reminiscing. Footfalls were getting close. One man, light on the tread and moving easily. He must know these woods. That was not good.

Without his automatic, and clutching the shotgun like it was a broom handle in his right hand, he scrambled forward, then ziggedzagged right, into another part of the forest. A gunshot went off, but struck nothing near him. From the echo of the report, Monk guessed the gun was a large-caliber pistol, a .357 or maybe a
10-MM
Desert Eagle, all the rage since their use in movies and TV as the latest weapon of choice. Monk slammed against a tree, momentarily stunning himself

He steadied himself. Not too far away, he could hear water, a stream he reasoned. Beneath the sound of the running water, he couldn't discern a human one. His tracker must be an experienced game hunter. Or for all he knew, this might not be the first time he'd pursued a victim in these woods. Monk considered hunkering down and waiting, but he didn't think he'd catch this one off-guard like he had the first one. No, Grainey would be different, more calculating and more patient. And more careful after Monk had dropped his buddy.

But even he was not as patient as the one he thought was Kanner, who must be circling around. This one, and Monk assumed it was the martial artist from the river boat, would understand there was no rush. That there was very little chance Monk would reach any help before he got to him. He might even have a pair of see-in-the-dark binoculars or goggles to give him an added advantage as he stalked his prey, until the right moment to get his sights lined up on Monk's form in his night scope.

Monk moved off toward the creek. Branches and dead leaves crunched underneath his feet as he plodded toward the water. He heard brush give way as the second gunman came for him. He probably knew where this stream was in the map in his head. Monk trotted, holding the shotgun soldier-fashion, one hand around the stock and trigger guard, the other supporting it by the barrel grip. He fell again, over a tree trunk, and slid into a clump of leaves. Their dry odor filled his nostrils, and he fought the terror increasing his heart rate, knowing the gunner had heard him crash.

He got up groggily, and did his best to weave through a stand of tall trees that he judged, from the amount of fallen leaves about, to be oaks or maples. Monk halted, kneeling down against a bulk he could feel was the log of a fallen tree. The stream was behind him. Something moved in the brush and the hot sweat on his face went cold. Reflexively, Monk flung himself forward but no shot rang out. The noise persisted and listening closer, he guessed it was a smaller form, a squirrel or possum. Hopefully.

Despite himself, Grainey smiled. Sure, he'd probably be sad later that Lester was lying back there dying, might even kick the bucket. But the goon was always so cocksure of himself—he always gotta be the man, the one to drink the most, the one to do the most shitkickin'—Grainey knew something like this was going to happen to him sooner or later.

Anyway, the motherfucker had been fucking Linda, filled her full of lies about him, and he'd been seeing her first. Lester always did think he was smarter than him, getting the swank jobs from the big boss and all, now who was top dog?

The black boy was no knock-over. He was seasoned; Grainey could tell he'd been in tough spots before. He wasn't running around panicked-like, he was trying to move with purpose through these woods. But Grainey had grown up around here, still hunted venison and rabbit. They were on the outskirts of the St. Francis National Forest, and that city coon didn't know his right from his left out here. Grainey did.

He stopped and listened. He knew exactly where he was. There was the fallen log with the sunflowers growing out of its end just to his left. The stream was about three yards in front of that, and it flowed diagonally through several patches to the east where Grainey figured he'd catch up with his intended target. If he didn't get him before. Damned if he was going to let that weird bastard Kanner plug the jig. He really didn't like Kanner.

Best to concentrate, Grainey admonished himself, cautiously prowling forward, his Desert Eagle at the ready. He wished he had his Winchester, but goddamn Lester had insisted he only take a pistol. Telling him why did he need his hunting rifle since Monk would drive up, they'd box him in, and that would be that. But the sumbitch proved to be wily, and now your smart ass is breathin' through your stomach, Lester. He knew Lester had figured Monk would run, and that Lester'd be the one to cut him in two with his Browning. The funny thing was, Monk now had the shotgun.

Yeah, he told himself, easing along, he'd better be wise. That dinge might not be familiar with these surroundings, but he was still armed. Grainey reached the section of the woods where the rise of Wacha Mountain caused the river to bend, and veered off to the southeast. Nothing. No sounds except the usual night noises. Where'd that porch monkey get to? He couldn't be moving that confidently in all these unfamiliar surroundings, especially at night. Shit.

And where in the fuck was that Chuck-Norris-wannabe Kanner? When the shootin' started, he just kinda disappeared. Making all mysterious with his kung fu bullshit. Shit. Now what should he do? Keep going. He knew Monk would follow the river, figuring it would take him to clearer ground, and it would. But as there were several tough spots along the way, like where the small mountain was, that would slow the darkie up. Had he gone on, thrashing through the forest, lucky not to bang into a tree or trip over some roots? Or had he not gone on at all?

All right, he should find Kanner. Fuck. It was his idea that they should take some cellulars with them, but no, Lester had nixed that, too. It was only because he'd suggested it that the small-minded asshole had said no. Grainey moved back the way he'd come, slow and steady, his ears pricked for anything out of the ordinary. At some point Kanner would find him, and together, they'd smoke the black boy into the open.

He got back to the tree trunk and called out. “Kanner, it's me. I'm over by the log with the sunflowers.” No answer. Slope-thinkin' motherfucker. “Come on, Kanner,” he shouted, exasperated.

Something rustled and for that single moment he turned toward the area directly in front of him, straining to see Kanner's form. Almost as quickly it occurred to him the sound wasn't quite leaves crunching underfoot, but something else. He aimed the gun at the log and fired. At the same moment, hands clamped on his ankle and he was upended. “Kanner!” Grainey hollered. He was bringing the pistol up, firing as Monk's fist struck him in the windpipe.

Monk pressed his attack. He leaped and landed on the man named Grainey, who was trying to get to his feet. They became entangled, and Monk could feel the hot muzzle of the man's semi-auto press against his groin. He ducked, and in the same motion, shoved the heel of his hand against the bottom of the other man's chin. The gun fired.

Grainey let out air in a rush, the gun going momentarily slack in his right hand. Monk's shoulder blade burned where the second shot had clipped him, but he couldn't let up. He wasn't going to die.

“Kanner!” Grainey cried hoarsely, his windpipe severely damaged, slamming his knee into Monk's kidney.

His back up against it, Monk became more ferocious. He got on top of Grainey, their arms intertwined. Having no hands free, he used his head to try to butt the other man. But Grainey had anticipated such a move, and kept his own head moving.

Driven by the certainty Kanner would be arriving at any second, Monk notched up his attack. He let his grip go on Grainey's forearm, where his pistol resided at the end of it. As the pistol hand came up, Grainey twisted his body to get in position to blast Monk in the head. In a blink, Monk shifted, crabbing forward over the man, freeing his left arm. Monk hit him again, stunning the man, temporarily halting the ascent of the gun. Monk latched both his hands around the man's throat, squeezing with as much force as if he were molding clay.

The gun hand, and he could sense this more than see it against the darkness, was at an angle to their bodies. Monk let go of Grainey's throat with his right. He grabbed the gun hand and brought the piece down against the middle of the man's face as he tried to orient himself. Monk then boxed the man's head with his right in two rapid blows.

Grainey moaned and Monk lurched to his feet, wrenching the gun away from the man. Monk kicked him in the face with his heel, ceasing the moaning. He paused, bent over, hands on knees, taking in air rapidly, and looked around. The clearing and the buildings lay behind him. It made sense for him to try to reach their respective shelter. If Kanner was the third and last man, that would make him come to him. Even if he wasn't, it was the smartest thing to do, even though it meant crossing the clearing. His breathing somewhat regular, he retrieved the shotgun from where he'd placed it next to the log.

Monk had resigned himself to being cocooned in his canopy of leaves and earth all night. The ground near the river was soft, the leaves over it had kept the moisture tamped down. Like a mole, he'd clawed his way beneath the leaves and dirt next to the fallen tree trunk as much as he could. He knew he was giving fate the finger, traipsing around in these woods with at least two men after him. And that inevitably, he'd be caught.

When he heard the footsteps return, he'd had no choice but to take a chance and spring himself on Grainey.

Moving back toward the buildings, he concluded that's where Kanner had been all the time. Lying in the cut, he could have had the two country boys do the dirty work. If they were successful, fine. He was the cool, level-headed administrator. If they failed he'd be Mr. Clean-Up.

Monk was returning to the buildings like a salmon swimming upstream. Reaching the area where the machines were, he hunkered down, the pain along his shoulder blade starting to effect his endurance. Cold made him shiver and he hoped he wasn't hyperventilating. The bullet seemed to be in muscle and not in the bone, so that was good. But it was in him nonetheless and you couldn't just jump around with a foreign object in you and not notice.

His jacket and shirt were wet from sweat, mud and blood. He had to keep going. If he slowed down too much, if he stopped to rest, he'd become too aware of the fatigue starting to corrode his energy. He reached a large machine, the harvester. Fantastically, Monk figured how long it might take him to get the tiling going and drive to the buildings. He Just as quickly dismissed the idea. Stuck in the cab, fumbling with the levers and buttons in the dark, was putting himself in too vulnerable a position.

Going around the machine, a bolt of pain lanced his side. He sagged against the harvester, pinwheel bursts going off behind his eyes. Come on, Monk, don't let yourself down now. Come on, breath in, breath out, legs up then down. He got up, the butt of the Desert Eagle pistol digging into his back where he'd tucked it snug in the waistband of his ruined Dockers. He listened and of course there was no sound of another human. No creak of feet on leaves or the click of a gun's hammer.

Monk was now feeling along the harvester. In front of that was the low-slung rectangular hulk of the main building not more than twenty-five yards away. Its door was probably locked, but that wasn't a problem with a shotgun.

Then again, maybe he wouldn't go there. Didn't it seem the most obvious way to go—for the main building? Why not try one of the ones he'd noticed set at angles to this central one? Whatever he chose, he was going to expose himself. He didn't think Kanner had a high-powered rifle with a night scope. At least, to keep himself from freezing up with self-doubt, he had to believe he didn't; Kanner would have used it by this time. Kanner had to believe he was as alone as Monk was. But Monk had to believe he had more to live for.

Whatever prankish supernatural being rolled the dice to decide his personal destiny, he just had to believe he had one more throw of good luck left. He didn't run straight toward the main building, but toward the one tucked behind a stand of several tractors. A couple of the machines had loaders attached. Several shots cut the dirt to his right ahead of him. Kanner was in the main building, having guessed that would be where Monk would head. Monk dove beside one of the loaders. Kanner didn't waste a shot.

Luckily too, Kanner only had a pistol, judging from the weapon's report. Which meant he'd have to get close to get the job done. Good enough. Monk felt around and undid the wheel locks of the loader. Pressing his shoulder against it, the throbbing steady, he pushed the thing. Designed to be mobile enough to hook and unhook from a tractor, the loader with its slanting elevator leading up to its discharge spout creaked along. Monk had placed the shotgun on a horizontal area of the machine. Having gone several feet with the loader for cover, he was now breathing hard and sweating like a stuck pig, as his dad used to say.

The gun clattered and got caught in something at the loader's base. The wheels stopped turning, and Monk concentrated on remaining calm. In the murk, he felt about and latched onto the Browning, partially jammed against the tilling shaft. He yanked on it, his shoulder blade warm with his blood. Was that footsteps? Come on, please, he pleaded with himself, trying to wrench the shotgun free.